Another Generic Helicopter Story
by Bishop.AG
Summary: Yet another explanation for that mysterious Huey helicopter near death row. Picks up in the same style of Dead Frontier: Night Three, then moves into third person. T for gore and language.
1. Chapter 1

**Author Notes:**After seeing a slew of genuinely terrible helicopter stories, that did nothing to really explain that little green wreckage on the far side of Fairview, I decided, why not try? It picks up right at Dead Frontier: Night Three. However, I realize there is a bit of a plot conflict in terms of DFN3 and the chopper crash. DFN3 is set in 2016, and the crash in 2018. For sake of simplicity, I'll say both of these happened roughly in 2018. I'm utillizng a different character set than my normal pieces,and it will primarily be third person.

* * *

_You pound up the stairs, pulling along Stephany. Behind you, her father lights up the walls with another blast from his shotgun. He shouts obscenities with each shot that are lost to the howling hordes. As you climb the steps, you can hear the rhythmic drumming of rotor blades beating into the air, and a final surge of adrenaline charges your aching muscles. The three of you crash through the roof door. As Stephany's father locks the metal portal, you cautiously step down a narrow corridor. To your disbelief, a soldier waves to you from a olive-green helicopter._

_Unable to suppress your relief, you start to sprint towards it. Suddenly, the air is pierced by Stephany's terrified shriek. You spin around. Stephany cowers in the corner, her father protectively standing in front of her. You glimpse the biggest dog you have ever seen, with jet black, glistening skin and mouth that seemed to choke with sharp teeth. Above, dozens of ravenous crows circle the building._

_You turn to the chopper for escape. It lifts from the roof, and a loudspeaker switches on. "We can't pick you guys up with those things around!"_

_You check that your Glock is loaded and bring it up to eye level for what seems to be the hundredth time. Stephany's dad nods to you in resignation and pumps his Mossberg._

_

* * *

_

_Boom!_

Warrant Officer (WO1) Daniel Dyer sighed in relief. The ancient helicopter had started without fuss, it's single Lycoming turbine cranking out maximum power.

_Who the hell still uses Hueys, anyway?_

Mister Dyer was a UH-60 "Blackhawk" driver. It was of the best damned choppers in any service, with an extremely long operational range and great maneuverability. His crew flew the bird as extensions of their bodies. Now, he was sitting by himself in an unfamiliar craft that probably hadn't been serviced since the Gulf War. If the computerized displays of the Blackhawk had been art, the Huey's console would be hieroglyphs smeared with mud. Breaking years of ingrained habit for a new system wasn't what he wanted. Daniel had spent two hours in shut down just familiarizing himself with the controls. Until then, he hadn't even known if the bug-like helicopter would start.

Daniel took a moment to look through the Plexiglas windshield at the frantic work being done to similar choppers. He had been shipped out with a mechanized infantry unit to recover the McKinley National Guard base, barely a mile from the no-go zone of Fairview. His job was to pilot any functional choppers the techies could pull together.

Of course, that didn't mean he skipped out on his share of the action. The Warrant Officer glanced at the M16A2 slung over the back of his seat. Daniel was still a soldier, pilot or not, and he had fought just as hard as the grunts on the way to Fairview. He had the callouses and the bulging loadout of his breed.

Before the crap had so spectacularly hit the fan, he didn't pack much. His soft body armor, standard-issue Beretta and a red-filtered flashlight. The guns locked in his Blackhack and the Crew Chiefs were protection enough. These days? A thick tactical vest loaded with ceramic plates, a .45 and a large _survival_ knife were his second skin. None of which helped the bizarre comparisons to _Aryan Ubermensch_ for his by-the-book blond hair, blue eyes and lean build.

The RPM gauge indicated that the rotor system was up to speed, and he experimentally pulled upwards on the collective pitch. The Huey lifted steadily from the ground, drifting slightly. Though the UH-60 had a more streamlined interface and more engine power, the same principles applied for any kind of rotor wing aircraft. When he pushed forward on the cyclic pitch, the UH-1's rotor system would tilt forward, sending the aircraft forward and losing lifting power in the process. He kept his feet solidly in the anti torque pedals and twisted on more engine power to compensate for the loss in lift. Just like flight school, he kept his eyes glued to a pile of sandbags as a reference point for the hover.

As soon as he had tested that the UH-1D was flight capable, Dyer set the craft back down on the pad and shut down. It felt good to be in control of a bird again, but his orders had been only to check that it was functional. He opened his left-side door, climbing over the collective pitch lever. Daniel returned his rifle to it's comforting place on his back, and made his way to the main buildings. On the tarmac, there were seven mostly intact UH-1s, technicians already salvaging parts to get a few in working order.

As one of the successfully quarantined areas, the countryside neighboring Fairview had more or less been untouched, and the helicopters had been locked in their hangars during the sudden evacuation. The US Army had been pretty lucky to find intact aircraft at the local base.

The cool breeze was replaced by a warm wave of motor oil and sweat. Inside, everything and anything had been torn down and salvaged. The only things that the grunts hadn't dismantled were probably the tables that the big brass were planning on, and a number of coffee machines. He had barely taken a scalding first sip of some very strong coffee when their leader, a Major, called them together. In normal times it'd have been a flight leader, but with Dyer's own company spread amongst searching units, there weren't enough pilots remaining to have their own group.

As Major Whitman droned on, Daniel's thoughts drifted to the idea that he'd have the first real bed in months, and the security of a genuine military compound. Sure, he'd pull guard and do PT, but...

"unately... The Army heads don't want the barricades torn down, so there will be no ground support. Your primary objective is to observe any survivors. This will be a low profile mission, so do not attempt to maintain contact." A milk run, pretty much. Whitman kept talking, glancing around at the gathered men. Daniel thought he seemed like a father figure, strict but generally honest. The man's seasoned face was set with grey eyes, his hair silvering more with stress than age. Pretty damned good for an officer, not a career chaser. "There aren't any gunships or armor to take on a...." The Major spat out the next words, "_Superior_ force. This is a volunteer only mission." The grizzled man stared right at Dyers. "Will you boys do it?"

Which in this post apocalyptic hierarchy meant, _do it, now_. Whitman might have been fair, but he was also stubbornly determined on what he wanted done.


	2. Chapter 2

"Fuckin inspections..." Daniel had comfortably adjusted to the change of no more bunk inspections. Then again, he was also used to not having a bed at all. The military maintained it's pain-in-the-ass traditions, despite painfully obvious changes. Men went to sleep in full uniform and holstered handguns instead of stripping down. People pulled guard in twos and threes. Of course, the punishments in post apocalyptic screw ups tended to be pretty bad, too. Hence straightening out the sheets and "hospital folding" them under his mattress.

While pilots weren't required to do as much PT as the ground-pounders, Daniel typically ran with his buddies in the infantry out of principle. He had done exercise, shared KP duty and posted guard with his same friends for the better part of the year. Being perfectly honest, Dyer didn't trust people. He was a party animal and a dirty S.O.B., but his worst fear was betrayal. Most people would never guess that, from his wild attitude and professional arrogance.

With people he trusted, however, he was exceedingly loyal. His bird had one hell of a close knit flight crew. _Had._ He was still pretty pissed about the United-States-Fuckin-Army casually slicing up crews to ship off to "possible" sites of intact craft. He had to wonder why the didn't ship them out _after_ finding the craft. Of course, all that just made him damned lucky to find his wings again.

After a hurried mess of powdered eggs and "bacon", he returned to his bunk to gear up. The Major wanted the pilots suited up by noon to choose crews. Dyer had noticed several other Warrant Offices practicing on the firing range, preparing for the worst. _Practice doesn't mean perfect, but coming close does help._ Like Daniel, the men went into their birds prepared for a rough landing.

Nobody else was in the bunkhouse when Daniel returned. He first donned his Ranger Body Armor, a slightly dated plate carrier that he had picked for it's low silhouette. He had mounted a camelbak on back panel, adding a bit of bulk to the twenty-pound ballistic vest. Around his waist, a web belt held a number of pouches. Spare handgun magazines and a "bug out" pouch on his left, a belt mounted flashlight and medical pouch on the right. Dyer then retrieved a well-maintained M1911A1 pistol from his footlocker. The big handgun was coveted over the issue Beretta nine-millimeters, and rarely did a tanker or pilot have one in their possession. Whether they were actually better handguns, Daniel didn't know, but his buddies had given him the .45, and he didn't have the gall to blow them off. Bottom line, it fired big bullets, and he could trust that.

Daniel loaded a seven-round magazine and racked the slide, chambering the first round. Making sure the safety was on, he holstered the sidearm in a kydex holster on his right hip, beside a well-worn KA-BAR knife. Finally, the WO1 donned the signature items of his specialty, long, fire-retardant nomex gloves and his distinctive HGU-54/P helmet, odd against MARPAT camouflage "borrowed" from the Marines. When his feet were planted in the dirt, he'd pack rifle magazines into the vest, but crammed into a helicopter cabin, slung over the seat was more bearable than slapping extra pounds onto his already stifling load.

When Daniel arrived at the Major's "command post", he was surprised to see slightly over a dozen men, skeleton crews for anything over three choppers. Whitman, observing that all were apparently present, proceeded to explain the situation. "Gentlemen, we are going to enter the city in three sections. Two crews will fly troop carriers, and two more gunships." Daniel pondered the use of "troop carriers"; it had been stated the mission would be reconnaissance. Gunship made sense, firepower being the god-given gift it was, but deploying infantry or picking up survivors would be against the mission parameters.

"Normally, I'd assign the crews myself, but by now, I'd bet you men know what works, and what doesn't work. I'll let you select your own crews and aircraft." Dyer quickly got piled into a group of five. Fellow Warrant Officer Fred Jong looked up from his clipboard to shake Daniel's hand.

"Welcome, Dyer. Our crew chiefs will be Sergeant Ray Lee and First Sergeant "Vince" Rodriguez. Corporal George O'Malley will be our passenger, to photograph our route." Daniel knew the men pretty well, in fact, Ray had been the one to give him the pistol currently buckled around his waist. They all shook hands and exchanged greetings, then listened intently as Jong related their mission.

"Our slick's callsign is Jackal-One, Jackal-Two will also be flying observation. Terrier-One and Two are our support gunships. Jackal-Three, Terrier-Three and Terrier-Four are on standby unless we need assistance." The stocky Asian paused to flip through his papers, placing his finger on a laminated map. An inch equated to five miles. Base McKinley was three by four inches on the map, another six inches from the nearly foot by foot square that was Fairview. "Our run is going to be fifty miles into the city, starting from the North side and swinging to the West. From there, we leave city limits and return directly to base. This will be a short flight."

The group donned their helmets and proceeded to the tarmac, where Lee briefly looked over their selected aircraft. Finding the UH-1D satisfactory, he gave Jong a thumbs-up. Dyle buckled into the left seat, his rifle lashed to the rear with several magazines. Jong sat in the right side, the flight commander. After checking some instruments, he cranked on the engine power. The Lycoming turbines whined to life and the cabin was washed out with the downdraft and pounding noise of the rotors. The other choppers followed suit in short order, filling the air with the deafening _whup-whup-whup_ that the Huey was known for. Daniel thought of a quote he had heard long ago on helicopters: _Rotor wing aircraft don't fly; they beat the air into submission._

Lee and Vince took their seats on the side of the aircraft, locking belts of 7.62 ammunition into their M60 machine guns. Ray shouted over the rotor wash, "Some serious _Vietnam_ shit right here." Dyer squeezed his radio switch for "intercom" and replied, "Don't know about you, but I'm pretty jealous of the miniguns and grenade launchers Terrier gets to carry."

The aircraft controller's voice crackled into their helmet speakers. _"Foxhunt flight, tarmac is clear, you have the green light." _A dozen affirmatives filled the airwaves in reply.

As the Huey started to rise from the ground, Dyer thought to ask, " Fred, do you think we really need slicks for this? Wouldn't the gunships pull observation too?"

The seasoned pilot only replied, "The army just wants a neat way to pick up our bodies in a crash."


	3. Chapter 3

"Daddy, can we stop now?"

The man squeezed Stephany's hand, gently pulling her along."Soon, daddy just needs to find somewhere safe." George Hudson wished he could explore more, have more than a couple scraps for his daughter to eat, maybe even clean clothes. His thirty-four years didn't put grey strands in his brown hair as much the stress of living. The man glanced at his watch, pulling back the sleeve of a well worn suit jacket.

It was unwise to retain his business clothes when they were so terribly impractical, he knew. His daughter thought it meant that he was in charge of their lives, like when he headed to the office every weekday. If he couldn't do anything else, he'd make Stephany feel safe. Even if it meant wearing an awkward suit with his grey trousers and sweatshirt, or carrying the Mossberg constantly.

George cautiously tested the door's handle. A battered sign above the read "Pho Noodle," and the mock-tropical interior indicated some sort of Asian restaurant. He saw a cashier's desk directly adjacent to the front door, along with several long-shriveled up potted plants. A number of bamboo tables were set through the front room, pushed aside as if a crowd had split the room in two. Exploring the kitchens, he found a single door to an alleyway, secured by an iron bar. George then returned to the front room and set his shotgun against a table.

"Do you need the hammer?" Stephany was only twelve years old. She didn't whine or cry, and quietly knew what to do to help her father. George was both immensely proud and saddened by how fast she had grown up in such a harsh setting.

He forced a small smile and told her, "Not this time, the shutter is still intact." With a bit of a scraping and tugging, the rusting steel was coaxed from it's stagnated position. George wrestled it halfway down, pausing to look outside. Light shined through the slits of the protective metal, and the sun, vivid, lively orange, floundered between dirty grey clouds in the first hints of twilight.

It almost looked beautiful, it was so sad. Staring through the shutter, George saw the a caged sun with watery eyes that he hid from his daughter. Stephany hugged him tightly around the waist, pressing her face into his stomach. The father who had struggled against all the habits that society and a soft life had ingrained in him appreciated the embrace more than she could imagine.

Two years ago, they had seen the first television reports of "crazies" and riots in Fairview. When Stephany had asked if her mother was going to be okay, he had piled into the Audi and left Oakland Heights to get to his divorced wife. George was a sensible man; he had brought as much canned food and gas as would fit in the Q3, and made a stop at Dick's Sporting Goods. The clerk, who had sold the Mossberg 500 Field and surefire light to George a month before, told him all the shotgun ammunition had been bought up. When George explained that he needed to get to Fairview, the clerk had retrieved four twenty-round cartons from the back of the store, and mumbled a timid "good luck" before retreating from the register.

George made it to Fairview, four hundred and fifteen miles away, after seven hours of driving and a single stop at for gas and coffee. By the time he arrived at his wife's apartment, two people had attempted to rob him, only staved off by his uncharacteristically aggressive driving. He found a room that had been empty for at least a week. Before he could leave the city, the military completed it's quarantine plan and Fairview plunged further into hell.

George lost his car a year in, and stuck to the same side of town ever since. He regretted every day what he didn't do for his daughter. Stephany had already curled herself up in a blanket. George pulled a chair in front of the door, and allowed himself to fall asleep, shotgun across his lap.

**Notes:** The weapon is a Mossberg 500 Field, twelve gauge with a 28 inch ribbed barrel, bead sight and five round magazine tube. The foregrip was replaced with a Surefire 623LF LED forearm. The Audi Q3 was sapphire , and at the time that this is being written, it hasn't been released, but I think I can get away with a setting in year 2016.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author Notes:**

_nooneimportant, _I received your review. Since you reviewed anonymously, I'll have to respond here. I much prefer to PM, but I left the anonymous reviews open to get the most input. Indeed I continue to write though I get few reviews. Realize that this is a recently published fiction on an obscure category of FF; do you honestly expect many reviews? I don't publish stories solely for reviews, anyway. I think the people that write for flattering feedback really shouldn't be writing, at all.

To clarify on several points: the Secronom infection was quarantined in Fairview. If you read the first chapter carefully, it is clear that the rest of US had it pretty rough, and that the military was exploring Fairview because it was one of the few places successfully quarantined. Quarantine, meaning a crap ton of physical barriers to leaving the city.

Keep in the front of your mind that I am not following the game all that close. Some parts of Dead Frontier would be really stupid in a good fiction: zombies won't spectacularly explode when hit by bullets, survivors can't wait for a timer if they die, etc. As such, I'll be basing combat and the like off logic rather than game mechanics, etc. The city will also be much larger than in-game, a metropolis with a normal population of several million.

Remember that George had his van when he picked up the ammo to drive into the city. It was never stated that he survived solely on that ammunition. It's common sense he'd scavenge ammo, as much as food or clothes. Aggro wouldn't be exactly like DF, either. While loud noises attract zombies, yes, he'd definitely lay low and avoid combat.

* * *

George awoke to a dull humming noise. He quickly sat up, careful not to wake Stephany. Shaking sleep from his eyes, he tried to make out the noise again. To his utter amazement, he could hear the rhythmic thump of a helicopter, and one very close by. He shook his daughter awake, rapidly whispering. "Daddy is going to check something out, alright? I want you to hide here, and don't let anybody else in. I'm going to try to be back in a couple minutes..." George grabbed the Mossberg, pumping it for the first time in several days. He pulled up the shutters, just far enough for him to crawl through.

Stephany watched her father leave. He never loaded his gun unless something bad was going to happen.

* * *

The flight was maintaining an altitude of a thousand feet, a faint line of dots in the sky. Daniel shifted uncomfortably in his seat as the Huey entered the gloomy city limits. Fairview looked creepy. Not like a war-torn city, where bodies would lay in the street, and the ground would be covered mounds of powdered rubble and broken glass. It wasn't death and destruction that made everything feel so wrong. Apartment complexes and department stores stabbed into the sky alongside rows of squat businesses. Every few blocks, Dyer saw the burned out shells and open walls that showed what really had happened to the city. But... it didn't look wrecked. It just looked empty, _mournful_.

Fred glanced up from his flight checklist. Impassive to the sights below, he activated the intercom. "Dan, we need to split the flight to cover more ground, establish a rendezvous point on the opposite side of Fairview."

Daniel blinked, trying to remember if Jong had mentioned this during the briefing. He then squeezed the trigger on the cyclic pitch, activating his radio. _"Foxhunt flight has reached Fairview. Splitting off for observation run. Form up at West side of Fairview. Jackal-One, out."_ Terrier-One fell behind Jackal-One, it's wingman trailing behind the other troop carrier. The four drifted away in pairs, returning to their original bearings only after separating by several miles.

Jong brought the chopper down to five hundred feet, and objects on the ground became more distinct. Dozens of rusting vehicles filled the streets, and Dyer thought he could see specs of red, the bodies that marked any quarantine zone.

Ray's deep voice rang through their helmet speakers. "Mister Jong, we're awfully exposed at this height. Not even buildings to give us cover, and no altitude to avoid being spotted visually."

Jong instantly replied, "I was thinking the same thing. That's why we have door gunners _vigilantly_ watching our flanks,_ Chief_." The Warrant Officer, when not entirely business, could be somewhat sadistic.

"Shit." Muted chuckles could be heard in the cabin and Jong nodded to Dyer, allowing himself a rare smile. George O'Malley pulled his way up to the pilot's seats.

He had to shout to be heard by the Warrant Officers. "Don't suppose you could take me lower? It's hard to make out anything!" Ray cursed loudly, and their passenger looked around, confused by the comment. Lacking the radio in his MICH helmet that the crew had, the photographer had missed the entire exchange.

Daniel grinned, glad that he wasn't facing the bewildered man. "You got it. But hang on tight, because the only low we fly is fast and low!" O'Malley nodded and scampered back to his seat, bracing against the wall as the Huey quickly descended.

As they cruised at their steady clip, O'Malley continued to snap pictures with his 35mm camera. Film cameras were rare. The same kind of rare as the helicopters they were flying. Even the military had dug up their treasured computers and issued digital cameras for documentation. It wasn't because they were obsolete; his personal camera had a digital display for reviewing film and augmenting the image, in fact. It was more because film cameras were so popular. Nobody wanted a picture they wouldn't be able to see once a battery died. O'Malley had just kept the camera he used for his main hobby, hiking and photographing landscapes. Others thoughy he had an endless supply of film, with the number of photos he would take. What was important was not the number of shots he made, but what kind of shots. For military photographers, there were two kinds of shots: The easy ones, and the ones upper hierarchy wanted. Of course, you had the ones that actually mattered, too, but they never let you keep those.

Mutilated bodies littered the asphalt around a mostly intact SUV. _Click._  
Brass casings, retaining the sheen of recent use. _Click. _  
A pile of purple corpses. _Click-Click-Click. _

_"_Mate, take a look at this." Vince, who had zoned out several minutes ago, blinked several times before examining the screen.

"Shiiiit... The hell happened to those guys?"

Ray turned in his seat at the exclamation. "Let me see that?" O'Malley showed him the bodies, careful not to step into the slipstream beside the crew compartment doors. "Hmm... Poor bastards..."

O'Malley glanced again at the image. "Aye.. Looks a bit like a funeral pyre."

Vince then called out from his side of the chopper, "What kind of fuckin fire turns people _purple_?"

The photographer shrugged. "To be frank, I dun really want'a know." As he brought the viewfinder back up, he saw the distinct distortion of the air that fire caused. Before he could snap the picture, they had already raced through the scene.

Jong's voice came through the speaker in the ceiling. "Chiefs, I want those sixties up, I see movement." Ray and Vince sat erect in their seats, pulling back the heavy bolts on their machine guns. O'Malley tucked the camera into his vest as he returned to the cabin bench. He picked up his rifle, a National Guard M16A1, and made sure a round was chambered.

Dyer keyed the radio again, contacting their tailing gunship. _"Terrier-One, be advised that we see movement ahead, possibly human. Increase trailing distance and cover our approach, over."_ Jong pulled back on the cyclic, cutting their airspeed slightly.

_"Roger, falling back two hundred meters, keep your comms open."_ The gunship matched it's speed to the troop carrier and followed slightly above, giving the mounted guns a better angle. The crew collectively held their breath as they approached the spot where movement had been sighted.

"There you are..." Daniel pulled the chopper to a hover, ready for a quick escape. It was a plaza, it's perimeter about twice the length of the Huey in each direction. Several shriveled planters and dilapidated stalls lined the walls bordering the area. Narrow alleys lead away from the intersection of sorts. The spot looked picked out to meet the helicopter, though obviously by someone who did not know much about them. Despite the space available, the cluttering scenery limited landing room to a narrow strip in front of a large gate bordering the nearby street. The tail rotor could easily clip the tall structure during a landing. Jong instructed Daniel to put the bird parallel to the gate, so that Ray would face the rear of the plaza.

A man stepped out of a storefront, clutching a shotgun. Dyer was mildly surprised, the guy looked like your average dad, a bit out of shape and towards the end of his prime years.

"Not a zombie, at least. Fred?"

Jong activated the exterior speakers. "Drop your weapon and step slowly up towards the Crew Chief at the side of the helicopter." Obediently, the man dropped his weapon and stepped up to Ray. The chopper was ten feet from the ground, and Ray had to strain to be heard.

"Who are you?"

The man stepped closer, shouting up to the gunner. "Who? I'm just another Joe with a family to feed! Do you have space for passengers?"

Ray glanced over his shoulder, and Jong shrugged. "We need to radio for confirmation.

The Sergeant turned back to the open door and shook his head. "Sorry, need to radio back to ask."

The man started to look exasperated. "Can I at least get on board?"

O'Malley took the change to snap another picture. He frowned, accidentally using the flash during broad daylight. He checked the screen, then froze. The flash had reflected off a window above the man, revealing two faces glaring down at them. They had guns. Something told O'Malley they weren't just protecting their buddy. Moving with more composure than he thought he could muster, the man walked over to Vince and slapped him on the shoulder rather hard.

"What?" O'Malley shoved the camera at the gunner. The First Sergeant's normally hazy eyes widened in sudden suprise. He braced against his weapon, jerking the gun at every possible target in Sight. Partially regretting he had shown the man the picture, the Corporal made his way up to the pilots. He offered the camera to Jong, who only replied with a cool "Roger."

O'Malley returned to his seat, snapping pictures as he had before. The first thing he checked for, the men in the window, were now gone. Ray apparently got the information from Fred, as he kept his weapon pointed at the man when he informed him that they couldn't pick up passengers. The man stepped away from the chopper, obviously very dismayed. He started to walk away, then, like it was an afterthought, turned back with a pistol in his hand. O'Malley had just clicked the multiple exposure setting when the gunfire started.

_Click._ The pistol strobes. _  
Click._ Ray and Vince open fire simultaneously._  
Click._ Incoming bullets slam into the Huey in a shower of brilliant sparks. _  
Click._ The man staggers back, a 7.62 bullet tearing through his gut. _  
Click._ The wall of lead scythes through the body, staining the pockmarked ground brilliant crimson. _  
Click._ Ray hoses every building in sight with a stream of fire from the M60. _  
Click._ The streets pull away as the Huey finally climbs. _  
Click._

Daniel cranked maximum collective pitch, shooting the bird into the air like a rising balloon_. _As soon as the tail cleared the gate, Dyer slammed the cyclic backwards, rising out of the ambush in reverse. He immediately reversed the cyclic and mashed the left anti-torque pedal, spinning the chopper to minimize presented target and give both guns a clear shot. Rifle and shotgun fire poured from every stone planter, each window, sizzling into the air invisibly. The red tracers showering from Ray and Vince's guns swept the scene, pitiful compared to the rising firestorm. Despite the fierce attack, the deadly arcs pulverized stone and flesh alike, and the ambush temporarily receded as the attackers tried to gain better cover. This all unreeled in seconds, and Daniel was left seeing double as he pulled the Huey away from the site.

Vince stopped firing just long enough to exclaim earnestly, "Ho-ly shit Mister Dyer!"

The stone faced Jong then leaned toward Dyer, not quite whispering a warning to him. "Ran out of engine power any time during that maneuver, and we would have probably fallen into a death roll. Or, even hit that gate and snapped the tail boom right off..." Dyer sagged in his seat, realizing the _further_ danger he had placed them in. Jong only kept his eyes glued to the instruments, checking for any damage. "That said, well done, Dyer... I've got the controls."

O'Malley just sat, heart slamming from the very death he had very nearly been dealt in the last minute. The helicopter swung to face the ambush site, just on time to see Terrier-One dive for the kill. The rattle of fire from the ground was arubtly overpowered out by the throaty rattle of miniguns. Bodies littered the landing zone, fire now coming from nearby buildings. Sitting in the worst of the fire, the gunship carefully lined up it's weapons.

"You gotta be bat-shit crazy to be a rotorhead!" Ray shouted, still clutching his gun.

Jong shook his head, responding dryly. "As crazy as the men that go along the ride, with no control over their destination?" Jong returned his attention forward, leaving the Sergeant at a temporary loss for words.

"Oh, _fuck_ you man..."

Suddenly, a pair of M129 grenade launchers, mounted to Terrier-One in lieu of rocket pods, started to pepper the structure. The "_phut_" of each round was followed by an ear-straining slam a split second later, shaking the smokey air with each blast. O'Malley did his best to capture the scene, fighting unsteady hands. Each bright orange blast blew smoke and debris from the windows, like a dozen neon-colored fountains firing in sequence. Secondary explosions could be made out, but only barely under the sheer weight of the attack. Nearly a hundred grenades had been fired when the gunship finally ended it's run. It left the area utterly ravaged, and only the chop of rotor blades cut into the dry silence now.

_"Jackal-One, we should probably report to command about this. Jackal-Two and Terrier-Two are inbound. Over."_

Jong keyed his radio to respond. _"Affirmative, Terrier-One. We've taken significant structural damage, but we will be able to make it back. Out."_

Daniel finally tore his eyes from the instrument panel and examined his passengers. "Anybody hit?"

Vince pointed ti O'Malley. "Camera guy did." The Corporal stared at the gunner quizzically. Untangling himself from his seat, Vince reached over and pulled a flattened slug sat from the rear panel of the photographer's vest, dropping it into his hand. "Shit man, _someone_ tagged you. Right in the back, too." O'Malley slowly sat down, procedding to educate the crew in a staggering variety of British curses.

Jong spoke to his co-pilot, paying attention as if it were a normal conversation. "Dan, you'll really want to dress those wounds. They get infected fast."

Daniel shook his head. "Don't want to scare them with it. They aren't deep anyway, I'll be fine." He was literally lying through his pain clenched teeth. In reality, his left leg was tattered from a buckshot that had penetrated the Huey's plexiglas nose. Jong shrugged, which was the most approval most could expect from the cynical veteran.

* * *

Roving bands were dangerous. Even with equal numbers, fighting a group of raiders never ended well. In front of George, this lesson was totally contradicted. He had the urge to run out when he saw the helicopter landing, but stopped when he realized the plaza was a known raider base. The lone, average looking man would run out to pull the people into the withering ambush**.** The pockmarks on the buildings of many previous events convinced him that this victim too, would fall beneath the raiders. But the helicopter wriggled out of the trap, some ungodly wraith. The noise, the pressure of the gunfire was unbelievable. A wave of bullets went up to meet the chopper, and was met with an equally ferocious defense. When George heard the second aircraft approaching, he knew what would happen. He ran into the nearest shop, and disregarding the risk of a hidden zombie, hugged the floor, covering his ears.

First, there was a throaty rattle, a really fast gun. He was close enough to hear the panicked screams and futile return fire. Then the explosions began. They weren't as big as he thought they would be, but god, were there many of them. The blasts continued for nearly a minute, and the shock of each impact knocked objects off the walls, and filled the cramped corner store with thick dust. Choking on the moldy air, George stumbled out of the store, and down an alley into the plaza. Or what used to be one. It was ground zero, now. The shell of what used to be a real estate office had collapsed in on itself, only the first story exterior walls intact. It used to be a three story building.

Everything was dead, as the silence attested. No screaming wounded or groaning drunks. George quietly moved amongst the rubble, poking through for anything usable. He wondered what drove such people to voluntarily attack something like a helicopter. Was gaining a bit of hardware worth dying for? Watching the two choppers fade into the distance, he realized it wasn't that. It was escaping from this city, something every living thing stuck inside desperately wanted. Eventually, he gathered up a handful of shotgun shells and some food. As the first zombies arrived, he jogged away from the scene and returned to Stephany. They warmed two cans of tomato soup over a small grill in the kitchen, softening a loaf of stale bread in it. It was better meal than they'd had in a long time. George only wondered if the helicopters would return.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author Notes:**

_nooneimportant:_ You're still looking at this entirely the wrong way. No fan fiction is meant to be identical to the game. Does aggro exist in real life? The enemies aren't going to literally have their own areas like the game. The city, again, is supposed to be different from the in-game Fairview. Some survivors pick the raider lifestyle of picking off other humans. That's how it's been in every disaster. So there would be a significant number of people who either never explored enough to find the holdout, or plain refuse to co-exist with survivors. Also, if you read, the raiders only saw the single, lightly armed chopper because the gunship lagged back, and the end of the chapter had stated George fled the scene because zombies were starting to arrive.

At any rate, apologies that it took so long to post this.

* * *

The sun was rising gradually in the new morn, casting yellow rays into the mist. The soldier pulled a small pistol from his waist and aimed it into the sky, cocking the hammer with his thumbs. The flare arched upward, exploding brilliant green in the deep blue of morning. It would be seen for miles, the man knew. He waited for the radio call in silence.

_"Um, you alright there?"  
_

Two days had come to nothing. As if the monsters in the city knew this, their howls echoed in the distance. The soldier stood his ground, the end of a long night of running. Then, the first broke from the shadow of the towering buildings, the first running corpse. He slowed his ragged breathing and shouldered his weapon. The rifle barked, and the zombie fell with a bullet through it's eye. More came, faster now, and the soldier stayed on target. He cut his pursuers down efficiently, but it couldn't stem the flow or thin their numbers.

As the twentieth body was dropped, the man rocked a new magazine into his AKM, leaving the empty in the asphalt amongst dozens of brass cases. He suddenly realized that the zombies had all but disappeared, leaving him alone amongst the corpses. For a second.

_"Hey, we gotta move..."_

The soldier could see it coming, crashing through the wrecks of cars and stomping over bodies. The thing, giant and crimson, that had chased him through this hell. So he fired. He pumped bullet after bullet into it's lumbering, invincible body. What else could he do? He fired until he had to reload, he fired until the gun started to sizzle from the heat. The thing swept him aside with a giant fist, throwing him across the street, and he kept firing. The soldier fell unconscious without knowing if he had run out of ammunition.

_"Get up!"_

George impatiently shook the soldier, or, at least who he hoped was one. The man's tough features and combat gear would definitely indicate so. Even in this time, it'd be hard to find people decked out with flak jackets and emergency equipment, on top of a camouflage uniform. He had been overjoyed to find another living person, yet alone one who probably knew how to fight, but the man had fallen into a state of apparent hibernation. George had been trying to wake the man from his half-conscious state for almost twenty minutes now.

"Urrgh..." The man stood up, and promptly dropped onto all fours, gagging. George turned Stephanie away from the soldier as he retched. He noted that the vomit was thin, indicating the man hadn't eaten for some time.

"What happened?" George said, nervously toying with the sling of his Mossberg.

Panting, the soldier staggered to his feet and started to wander, apparently looking for something.

"What do you need?"

"My gun, I dropped my gun."

George was slightly puzzled at this; the man had a pistol holstered in his belt. Looking around, he realized that Stephanie was no longer at his side. "Steph? Where'd you go?"

"Is this it, mister?" The girl pointed to the brown and black rifle, thrown easily twenty feet from where the man had fallen.

"Uh... yes, it is. Thanks." The soldier walked over to the AK and pulled back the bolt, glancing into the chamber. He then patted down his gear, checking that all was in place. The entire time, he seemed to be forcing his lethargic limbs to move

When the man remained silent, George cleared his throat. "We saw some helicopters a few days ago. They've been running through the area regularly, and we're trying to see if they'll take us out."

"That's not likely. Why would they risk-" The soldier stopped, and stared right at George. "Were they military choppers?"

* * *

"Permission denied."

"Sir!..."

Dyer stood at crisp attention in front of Major Whitman. They had spotted a pop flare the other day, and he had been trying to get clearance to fly an observation run, with the crew's unanimous approval. In fact, they had more or less been the _only_ crew to volunteer for such a run.

"It's nothing personal, son. We can't risk sending out a wounded crew with a damaged vehicle. You know the rules as well as I do."

"...I see, sir."

"Dismissed." The Major was just as frustrated as Dyer. None of the other crews had the slightest inclination to even fly the general area. With the ambush, it was now debated if airborne operations should even continue in Fairview. Of course, that green flare did change things a little... Whitman lit a cigar and sifted through the papers he had been given. He found the thick manila envelope, his most recent delivery. It was a dossier of recent military deployments in Fairview.

Green flares were the extraction signal for the US Special Forces team that had been dropped days ago, but the delivery vehicle had been destroyed without a chance for communication. They were all thought dead. High altitude runs had even found pictures of bodies, before the entire site had been incinerated. Not even by military forces, some punk arsonist who got lucky. It was a right mess, and the risks involved in a serious investigation were very actual. It could be someone who got lucky with their Wal-Mart survival flares, or the neighbor's leftover fireworks.

The Major stood up from his operations center and strolled outside, watching the men repair their birds. He regretted accepting the command position at times like these.

* * *

"Goddamned politicians, that's what officers are..."

"Dyer..."

"Can you believe it? We're the only ones that even volunteer to check it out, they make us wait a whole damned day to say 'fuck you!,' and they-"

"Dyer. Shut up," Jong coldly said. They were still in the barracks, cleaning their personal weapons, and Daniel had been bitching the entire time. Dyer had gone to Whitman against Jong's recommendation, and gotten exactly the answer they had all expected. The man was a good pilot, but didn't know how to compromise, Jong thought. Though he still had to accept that Dyer was often the only one to voice their concerns, and when he did make a big deal, it was never over trivial matters. The pilot assembled his pistol, wiping off the excess oil, and stood to leave.

"Dyer, I'd like a word outside."

Daniel looked around helplessly at his squadmates, who could only grin and shrug. He left the parts of his weapon where they laid and wiped his oily fingers off on his trousers. Outside, Jong was casually enjoying a cigarette, leaning against the outside of the building in the morning cool.

Dyer walked up to the other Warrant Officer and leaned with his left arm against the structure. "You needed me?"

"Need, no. This conversation is for your own benefit." Jong ashed off his cig, now burned to half it's length.

"...okay, I'm listening."

"Don't make a big deal of not being deployed. I volunteered our crew as a replacement for any _'mechanical failures'_ the assigned birds may encounter. We can't do that if you get yourself grounded." Fred stared directly at Daniel to make sure the point went home. "You're not the only one who wants to do this."

"...Oh."

"Understood?"

"Yeah, yeah..." Seeing a dismissive wave from Fred, Dyer returned to the barracks interior. Jong reminded him of his drill instructors at the Warrant Officer training school, albeit, slightly more formal, and not quite as physical. The similarity was their skill at skimming around the Army's more B-S regulations. Daniel shook his head in quiet admiration and returned to the pain of cleaning his weapons.


End file.
